Vulcan Laughter
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Tag to "Workforce". Janeway and Tuvok reconnect over their experiences on Quarra.


Vulcan Laughter

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

Tuvok found Captain Janeway in the mess hall, sitting by the viewport with a stainless steel mug and a stack of padds, a single light fixture shining down on her in the darkened room. Her hair had been trimmed back to its customary chin-length bob; her uniform was as impeccable as his own. She looked harder and older, somehow, than she had on Quarra; not only because of her hair, but the expression on her face as she gazed out at the warp trails of the stars.

"Captain."

She jumped at the sound of his voice, looked up at him over her shoulder, and smiled. Twenty-one years' experience of reading her face told him it was a poor effort of a smile: joyless, weary, apologetic. He raised an eyebrow in response.

"You should not be drinking coffee at this hour," he said, "Unless you intend to work through gamma shift."

"There is _no_ hour at which I won't drink coffee," she retorted, in a voice hoarse with fatigue. "And unless your memories are still incomplete, you should remember how much paperwork I have to catch up on."

His memories were, in fact, complete – and not once he could not remember her sounding like this on the few occasions they had met at the Quarran power plant.

"May I assist you?" was all he said.

"Please."

She slid one of the padds across the table. He sat down, picked it up, and began to access his log files as tactical officer, ready to type the log entry he had already begun composing in his mind. Meanwhile, he waited. When it came to Janeway, direct questions were rarely helpful; if she had something on her mind, she would express it on her own terms or not at all. He required a great deal less sleep than humans did. He had time.

A quiet sigh from her caused him to look up from his report – and right into her sorrowful blue eyes.

"I think I need my moral compass checked, Commander." In spite of her use of Starfleet titles, there was nothing formal in the childlike fragility of her voice.

"Regarding?"

"The possible situations in which you'd consider it acceptable for a captain to lie to her first officer."

So this was about Commander Chakotay. Tuvok already knew that the man had infiltrated the power plant in disguise, abducted Lieutenant Torres, gone to Janeway's quarters for asylum, and been turned over by her to the Quarran authorities. He also knew that, as evidenced by their body language on the Bridge today, the captain and first officer were on cordial terms once more. He knew better than to ask what lie she had told, especially since her question was hypothetical. Still, he could make a guess.

"Only when telling the truth would severely compromise said first officer's ability to do his or her duty," he replied. "The circumstances, of course, would vary according to the facts and the individuals involved."

"What if … " Janeway picked up her mug in both hands, as if drawing support from its warmth. "What if the truth would have put the last nail in the coffin of a dying friendship?"

"Captain?"

She took a sip of her coffee, waved one hand dismissively, and leaned back in her chair.

"Just a touch of human hyperbole, Tuvok. It's … it's not as bad as all that. At least I hope not. It's just … you know that since the incident with Teero, maybe even since Seven came on board, things haven't been the same between Chakotay and me. Well, this morning when we broke orbit, Chakotay asked me … he asked me whether I was sorry he showed up. Not for a second, I said to him … but that wasn't exactly true."

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, as if they itched with tears or with fatigue. Her smile this time was more bitter than the coffee.

"I _was_ sorry," she rasped, "For much more than a second."

Tuvok locked his hands together under the table to prevent them from shaking. Her words sparked off a battle inside of him: a battle between Commander Tuvok of _Voyager_, who considered his captain's feelings entirely illogical, and Tuvok of Quarra, whose arms ached to comfort her.

"Your life on Quarra was a respite from the burdens of command," he said, embarrassed by the unsteadiness of his own voice. "I understand."

Compassion brightened every line of her tired features as she reached across the table to put her hand on his arm. She avoided his bare hand in consideration of his touch-telepathy, but he could feel the warmth of her even through two layers of fabric.

"Oh, Tuvok, of course you do, " she murmured. "I heard you laughing. I remember."

So did he. The sensation of laughter, bubbling up from his abdomen all the way into his mouth, making his eyes water and his body shake, bringing with it a rush of joy and lightness that had nothing to do with Mr. Jaffen's parentage and everything to do with freedom and fellowship, was impossible to forget. His sixteen-year-old self, to which he had regressed thanks to Kaden's alterations, had considered it a dream come true.

If only he could have had the dream without the nightmare that came afterward. Seven's struggle against his hold, her screams for help, the uncomprehending panic of her mind as he fought to make her understand that they _knew_ each other, the sick humiliation of being dragged away by security guards with all his new friends looking on – _We don't belong here! This isn't right!_ – was burned into his memory just as deeply as laughter. Without his mental discipline, he was dangerous to himself as well as to others. He would never be that reckless, selfish boy again.

"I do not regret my return to _Voyager_," he said. "Or the reassertion of my memories."

Janeway frowned skeptically as she took her hand away to pick up her coffee.

"Responsibility is a double-edged blade, Captain," he said, lapsing into metaphor, as he tended to when giving advice to her in order to spare her pride. "One side will injure, but the other will protect."

Her frown lines cleared, making her look several years younger, and she nodded in calm understanding.

"You mean that, even though we were free on Quarra, we couldn't protect ourselves. Or others."

"Or protect others _from_ ourselves," he added, with a twist of remorse he was unable to hide.

"You know I don't blame you, Tuvok," she told him gently. "Neither does Seven. If you hadn't confronted her like that, she might never have set the whole investigation going. Hundreds of people would still be ignorant of the truth, including ourselves."

"There are less … invasive ways I might have done so," he pointed out.

She shrugged. "Maybe. But it would be illogical," raising an eyebrow in wry imitation of his own gesture, "To regret something you can't change, wouldn't it, Commander?"

"Indeed," he replied. "Just as it would be illogical to forget where we are going as we mourn for what we have left behind."

She smiled at him, a genuine smile at last.

"Home," she said wistfully, her eyes fixed on a distant point of the universe over his shoulder. He imagined that, instead of the white walls and gray tables of the mess hall, she saw herself running along the cornfields of Indiana, all the way back to her mother's homestead. As for himself, the word made him think of flame-colored skies, blazing heat and pouring rain, T'Pel's cool fingers against his, and the heat of her body beside him in the night.

"Precisely," he said.

He was gratified to note that she looked relaxed, as if the invisible burden on her shoulders had briefly lifted. She was settled in her chair, her head against the backrest, her hands lying loosely on the table.

"When you put it this way," she said. "Being the captain again doesn't sound so bad. Perhaps I wasn't lying to Chakotay after all."

She gathered her padds into the crook of the arm that held her mug, pulled herself to a standing position with one hand braced against the table, and swayed a little before regaining her balance. Coffee or no coffee, she must have been more tired than she would admit.

"By the way, Mr. Tuvok," she said, glancing over her shoulder, her blue eyes dancing with sleepy mischief. "Would you consider it an insult if I told you you'd make a terrible comedian?"

"Coming from you, Captain," he replied, purposely deadpan, "I would consider it a compliment."

She laughed and squeezed his shoulder on her way past his chair. As always, both the touch and the sound lingered long after she left the room.


End file.
